


the house at the end of the lane.

by aiineslin



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiineslin/pseuds/aiineslin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a little collection of drabbles inspired by songs.<br/>multiple characters and multiple pairings.<br/>small summaries will be listed at the top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. jesus the mexican boy - filixkili.

**Author's Note:**

> **summary:** fili is very easily satisfied.  
>  **pairing:** one-sided!fili x kili.  
>  **warnings:** implied sibling incest. 
> 
> _He never wanted nothing I remember_  
>  _Maybe a broken bottle if I had two_  
>  _Hanging behind his holy even temper_  
>  _Hiding the more unholy things I do_  
>  \-- **iron and wine, jesus the mexican boy.**

When Kili comes stumbling through the door smelling of beer and vomit, Fili never asks, simply slides his arm around his brother’s shoulder and half-carries, half-drags him to his little room. In that little room that is half-choked by dust and odd smells exuding from foods left out for too long, Fili will remove his brother’s shoes and socks and set him onto his narrow bed, pulling a blanket over him if it is winter, or opening a window if it is summer.

Dis never approves. “You’re coddling him,” she says sharply when Fili walks down to the kitchen, his face drawn from being awake for a whole night. Fili doesn’t tell her about the times when the door to his room opens a crack, and a shadow crawls giggling into his bed. 

(His little brother never does anything, simply asks for warmth and a person to hold and snuggle into. Fili stares up at the ceiling when moments like this happen, he keeps his breathing deep and even and he allows his little brother to rest into the crook of his neck and weigh down heavy on his arm despite knowing that he’d wake up with a sore arm.)

When Kili asks Fili to drive him to a party, Fili allows it, takes his rusty little jalopy out for a spin to clubs with odd names and odder people. He watches his brother melt into a crowd of faceless people and always, always – Kili will thrust a fist up into the air and wave it in Fili’s direction. “You sure you don’t wanna come, Fi? You don’t wanna drink?” His brother’s voice had been thick with concern, slurred with beer and guilt and something more. Fili had shook his head, and his brother had smiled, a great worry lifted off his shoulders.

That night, Fili waits outside the club with one hand on the wheel and the windows wound down, a cigarette dangling from his lips and his eyes fixed on the metal door. One and a half hours later, the bouncer – a big, tall man with tattoos on the side of his head and a great bushy beard – had came over and shared a cigarette with him when the line to the door dwindled down to a scant few stragglers.

“You’re not going in?”

“Nah, can’t drink. I’m waiting for someone.”

“Huh.”

The bouncer had shared his cigarettes and a packet of half-finished cookies with Fili, and had helped him get giggling, tired, sweaty Kili into the backseat of the car – where Kili had promptly threw up all over.

“Thanks, man.”

“No worries.”

The morning sun had been creeping over the horizon, trailing orange and red across the dark sky. When Fili had let himself into the house, he had to carry Kili past a dozing Dis, who had fallen asleep with her mouth half-open and her arms loosely crossed on the couch. Fili had stopped for a moment to turn off the babbling television, and had continued on upstairs, only slightly hindered by Kili's flailing legs. He dropped his little brother onto the bed, watching the other sprawl across in in a loose tangle of limbs, dark hair spreading messily over the crumpled duvet.

“I’ was fun, whyyyy din’t you comin, Feeeee …”

Fili had laughed, and wiped Kili’s face clean with a wet cloth. And Kili had smiled at him, leant into his touch and pressed the smallest of kisses against the palm of his hand.

This was enough.

It will always be enough.


	2. aim for the head - bifur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **summary:** bifur had a record.  
>  **pairing:** n/a.  
>  **warnings:** implied character death.
> 
> _they have a taste for your flesh_  
>  _and for your blood they will crave_  
>  _they are coming for us now_  
>  _from beyond the grave_  
>  \-- **creature feature, aim for the head.**

Bifur was very proud of his long years of being a vegetarian, and even prouder of the fact that one very special Christmas, he had managed to whip up a faux turkey that had apparently passed Bombur’s exacting tastebuds. Bofur had been exceedingly surprised, and Bifur had enjoyed the stark look of surprise on his cousin’s face as the other had inspected his fork.

 

 “But this tastes like _meat_!” Bofur had exclaimed, a look of surprise and mild sadness warring on his face.

 

(Bifur had given a very pleased little sniff.)

 

Bifur loved to garden, he grew pretty little flowers, colourful flimsy little things that gave joy to all who looked at them and he would often make the rounds in his neighbourhood on his run-down bicycle, handing out flowers to his different neighbours. Even the ones he didn’t like.

 

(Especially the ones he didn’t like. A florist relative of one particularly disliked neighbour had gaped at the latest arrangement of flowers Bifur had sent them, and he had said, “You know that flower means he’s declaring _war_ on you, right?”)

 

But he had to stop gardening for a good long while, after the news anchor was attacked by something on television, and then he just stopped going out after the frantic call made by his cousin (“Don’t go out, Bifur. Whatever you do, don’t go out.  I’m coming to get you! Just stay put, alright? Stay put.”) – he barricaded his doors and windows and sat upstairs, sipping tea and staring at the curtains.

 

Something might have went wrong somewhere.

 

One night, Bifur had woken up to hear something scratching at his room door. He had looked at the door, and had sucked back a deep lungful from his pipe. It had been a few days since he had last eaten, and he felt woozy and miserable and very tired. Then Bifur had went back to sleep, helped along with a sleeping pill and a bit of water.

 

Fast-forward a few days? And there was his cousin, standing before him.

 

His cousin had shot a hole near his head (clumsy!), which Bifur had been very displeased about. Bifur had made a horrible snarling growl at the back of his throat (when did he learn how to make such noises?) and his cousin had backed off, holding the gun in front of him like a shield.

 

“Bifur, Bifur … It’s me Bofur? Your best lad? Bifur, Bifur – oh, _Bifur_ -”

 

He had a record at some point of time. He had been very proud of something.

 

No matter. Seconds faded into minutes, minutes faded into hours and the pale strip of light that slipped into his dark room through a chink in his curtains played across his floor. As long as Bifur had his armchair and his pipe, he would be fine.

 

(His pipe seemed a little harder to smoke nowadays. Something with his lips falling off and not being able to wrap snugly around the mouth of his pipe. Something with his lungs not moving anymore.)

 

He felt very, very hungry nowadays, and some bad person had shot half an arm off .

 

… Where was his cousin?

 

Bifur was still waiting for him, his best lad.


	3. float on - bofur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **summary:** life on the road had its own charm.  
>  **pairing:** n/a.  
>  **warnings:** n/a.
> 
>  _and we'll all float on ok,_  
>  _and we'll all float on ok,_  
>  _and we'll all float on ok,_  
>  _and we'll all float on any way well._  
>  \-- **modest mouse, float on.**

Of course, there had been hard days.

 

Winters – those were bad. Snow piled up in huge drives around roads, and winds bit deep into bone – and that wasn’t good when all you had was a threadbare coat and some strategically piled on sweaters. Of course, you had hard lads too – boys who had too much drink in them and too much to prove to their sneering mates – those moments were not easily defused, Bofur had found out to his hard cost, and his flute had been damaged irreparably during one of those encounters.

 

But he had good times too.

 

Autumn of 2001 – where a little girl had given him hot soup and a crayon drawing of him piping on his flute. The good few months where he had stayed at a little village in the middle of nowhere, carving wooden toys and pendants and playing a couple of tunes down at the village pub. That one heady evening in an underground pass he had long forgotten the name of, where he had hooked up with a ragtag band and had earned a hundred quid in a matter of three hours.

 

No, it was good. This was a good life.

 

He was made for the roads – Bofur had decided a long time ago - for tarmac staying steady under his footfalls, for the grey sky hanging low over his head, for nights spent with one eye open under looming trees sprawled on benches in dark  parks.  


End file.
